


your singing eyes grieve what is lost

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Emotions, Fix-It, Geralt and jaskier meet their future selves, Geraskier Exchange 2020, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post the mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: The moon shines bright on the mountain, bathing it in her silver light.The mountain is full. A band of dwarves singing rowdy songs around a bright campfire. A dragon and his protectors curled protectively around a golden egg. A bard stumbling breathlessly down the mountainside. And a Witcher brooding in the darkness.(A sorceress is long gone from the mountain, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lilacs and gooseberries and rage).The dragon glances up toward the moon. She’s an argent crescent this night; slender and mysterious and gazing down with benevolence and the slightest hint of mischief.“They mean well,” the dragon rumbles. “They just need a little guidance.”Post mountain, Geralt and Jaskier have a strange meeting.Fix it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 256
Collections: Geraskier Exchange





	your singing eyes grieve what is lost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Luz for the 2020 Geraskier Exchange. I hope that you enjoy it!

_The moon shines bright on the mountain, bathing it in her silver light._

_The mountain is full. A band of dwarves singing rowdy songs around a bright campfire. A dragon and his protectors curled protectively around a golden egg. A bard stumbling breathlessly down the mountainside. And a Witcher brooding in the darkness._

_(A sorceress is long gone from the mountain, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lilacs and gooseberries and rage)._

_The dragon glances up toward the moon. She’s an argent crescent this night; slender and mysterious and gazing down with benevolence and the slightest hint of mischief._

_“They mean well,” the dragon rumbles. “They just need a little guidance.”_

#

_The moon shines bright on the mountain, bathing it in her silver light._

Jaskier shivers, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard dirt. However much he twists and turns it always feels as though there’s a something digging into his back; if not a painfully sharp stone, then a bit of root or some unpleasantly damp moss.

It doesn’t help that the night air is _cold_ , cutting through the thin fabric of his bedroll like a blade through flesh. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to bring much with him when he started his stumbled descent down the mountain, had indeed rebuffed any offers of companionship from the Yarpen and his compatriots (though he had a sinking suspicion that the dwarves were following closely behind him, unwilling to allow him to actually _die_ if nothing else), which has led to him lying on this godsforsaken patch of damp earth with no fire, limited food, and a complete unwillingness to get up and change any of those things.

No, much easier to sit here and stew over the words that Geralt had shouted at him on the top of that benighted mountain, replaying them over and over and minutely dissecting every expression, every hitch, every potential interpretation.

Though, how many interpretations of, ‘ _if life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands,’_ are there?

Jaskier rolls over and desperately tries to stop himself from excavating and analysing over two decades of friendship. Or ‘friendship’ as the case might be.

He’s going to survive this. He’ll wake up early, make his way off the mountain and out of Geralt’s life. Plaster a bright smile on his face, sing his songs of praise of the White Wolf to whoever would hear them. And perhaps someday, once the pain has faded to the ache of an almost-healed bruise (because this is a wound that will never truly heal, he knows this), he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of white hair and golden eyes and meet Geralt’s eyes in some random tavern. Buy him a drink and find the strength to leave him.

Jaskier closes his eyes. And, huddled in his blankets with nothing and no one but his lute for company, he goes to sleep.

And then he wakes up.

He thinks.

Or maybe he’s dreaming. It’s unclear. Because when he opens his eyes it’s not to the sad desolation of the mountain (the mountain that he knows will loom large in his songs and his soul) but to the warmth of a crackling fire, to an absent-minded humming, to the familiar rasp of stone of steel.

And when he opens his eyes, it’s to Geralt.

“Fuck!” bursts out of Jaskier’s lips before he can stop himself as he scrambles to his feet. “Geralt! What- how- why-”

Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile, and Jaskier wants to hit him, wants to punch his stupid, smug, perfectly symmetrical face.

“Those are all words,” Geralt agrees, laying down his steel sword and whetstone. His voice is patient and level and nothing like the hurt and anger and accusations that it had contained only a few hours ago.

“Oh fuck you,” Jaskier snaps, hands on his hips, “I thought that you didn’t want to see me again, Geralt. What was it you said- ah yes, that I’m the one shovelling all your shit and that it would be a blessing to have me out of your life. Well! Behold!-” he spread his arms wide in a moment of pure melodrama, “-Your prayers have been answered! Or at least they would be if you’d just let me leave!” 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and that sound, that stupid sound that seems to make up at least a third of Geralt’s vocabulary, is the last fucking straw, because Jaskier collapses on the ground and starts crying. Ugly crying, sobs wracking his body and snot running down his face and dripping onto his clothes. He can’t bring himself to care.

He sits there for one truly miserable minute before he feels warm arms wrapping carefully around him and he, despite himself, turns and sinks into the familiar embrace, shuddering in Geralt’s grasp.

It takes him even longer before he’s able to compose himself enough to talk, to look up at Geralt without bursting into fresh tears. Through it all Geralt just sits there, not attempting to talk, but holding him with so much careful affection that it sets Jaskier off again.

“Well, there goes the last of my dignity,” he finally manages to choke out after what feels like a lifetime. He takes a deep breath, wincing at tightness of his throat and the pain in his eyes.

He finally manages to look up at Geralt- and oh Melitele he’s got his snot all over his shirt- and sniffs pitifully, even by his own low standards.

“You’re fine, Jaskier,” Geralt says. The Witcher is still hugging him, Jaskier notes. That’s…nice? Confusing? Perhaps a mixture of the two?

Now he’s looking more closely at Geralt, there’s something not quite right about him. There are a set of scars- silvery with age- cutting down his face; they look long healed, far too well healed for the approximately 6 hours or so since he saw Geralt last. There are also fine lines around Geralt’s eyes that he _definitely_ didn’t have last time he saw him; Jaskier has studied those golden eyes enough that he could probably draw a fair impression of them if pushed (and possibly has before tearing the relevant pages out of his notebook and burning them) and he know, just knows, that the majority of those lines are new.

More than the superficial though, Geralt feels more settled. More comfortable in his own skin. Content in a way that Jaskier has only glimpsed in the occasional quiet moment when they’re sat around the campfire together, or when he’s performing in a tavern and happens to glance over at Geralt sitting in the corner table with his mouth lifted in a smile.

“I…I don’t understand,” Jaskier says. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming,” Geralt says, “but there’s nothing I can say that’ll prove it. Just know that I- that Geralt- regrets what he said to you. He was angry and raw and hurting and you were there, and he hopes that you can forgive him.”

Jaskier huffs into Geralt’s chest. “Well I know _that_ ,” he says, voice as cheerful as he can make it which- under the circumstances- really isn’t that cheerful, “Geralt, and especially Geralt who’s had an argument with Yennefer, truly is terrible at dealing with his feelings. I just- I just need to give him time to calm down. And it’s easier when I’m not there to- well. When I’m not there. But I can catch up to him later- a few months or maybe a year- and it’ll be. It’ll be fine. It’ll all go back to normal. Yeah, that’s it.”

Jaskier doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince; himself or this strange Geralt who might well be a construct of his own imagination, but he’s fairly certain that he’s not succeeding in convincing either of them. That’s fine, though. He has time to refine the stories that he’ll tell, both to himself and others.

Geralt frowns at him, but it isn’t his usual scowl. It’s something softer. Sadder.

“Fuck,” he says, low and vehement. “You never told me about this, Jaskier,” he mutters to himself, almost too low to hear, before turning his attention back to the bard.

“I don’t know what- I’m not the best with words,” he says, “but my life would be infinitely poorer without you, Jaskier. I know that, and your Geralt knows that. And he’s going to tell you that himself, once he gets his head out of his arse.”

“Hah,” Jaskier says. “Nice to know that I haven’t lost my skill in lying to myself at least.”

Geralt growls. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” he says, and Jaskier can’t help but cling to the note of fondness that he can- erroneously or not- hear in the Witcher’s voice. “You’ll figure it out. You’ll both figure it out,” he says, his hands tracing small circles on Jaskier’s back.

“But what if we don’t?” Jaskier asks, increasingly certain that the Witcher in front of him is nothing more than a figment of his imagination and increasingly reluctant to care.

“You will,” Geralt says, voice firm and sure. “But until then- until then I’ll stay with you.”

And then he leant down and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s in a soft promise. “I’ll always stay with you.” 

#

_The moon shines bright on the mountain, bathing it in her silver light._

Geralt stays on the top of the mountain. Doesn’t move. The smell of betrayal, two distinct scents of betrayal, are heavy in the air. Somehow, he’s managed to fuck up every good thing in his life in the space of a few minutes.

A part of him wonders whether, if he stays here long enough, whether they will come back for him. Whether anyone will come back for him. Or whether he’s lost them both.

Eventually, as the sun sets on the horizon and the moon rises, Geralt finds his eyes drifting shut. And he sleeps.

He wakes to the sound of music, the clear notes of a lute tumbling over themselves and filling the air with a haunting melody.

“ _Around your house, now white from frost, sparkles ice on pond and marsh, your longing eyes grieve what is lost, but naught can change this parting harsh…”_

Jaskier’s voice rings true, soft and sad and achingly familiar. Geralt has never heard this song before, but the emotion in it pierces his heart.

“Jaskier,” he says, opening his eyes and sitting up to stare at his bard. Who he thought he would never see again.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hums back, his hands stilling on his lute, the music fading to silence. Geralt narrows his eyes. His bard is wearing a plum doublet and the most ridiculous hat, complete with an egret’s feather stuck at a jaunty angle. He’s fairly certain that Jaskier doesn’t even own a set of clothing like that, and he certainly hadn’t carted it up the mountain.

He also looks _different._ Geralt knows that Jaskier is human, mortal. He tries hard not to think on it, but it’s an inescapable fact that he, with his Witcher lifespan, will outlive Jaskier; that barring a gruesome end at the claws of some monster or another, he will watch his frie- his companion wither and grow old and die. Geralt knows that Jaskier is mortal, but surely not even a mortal can age this much in so short a time.

Jaskier’s hair, what little of it he can see peeking out of the hat, has gone silver; closer to his own hair colour than the chestnut brown that it usually is. The bard is also wearing a pair of gold-wire rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, and there are deep crow’s feet carved into his face that deepen when Jaskier smiles at him.

The only thing that remains unchanged are his eyes; bright blue and familiar and laughing at him.

“What happened to you?” Geralt asks, hand itching for his silver sword.

“Now, now Geralt,” Jaskier says, flashing a grin at him, “I know that you’re struck dumb by my ravishingly good looks and the way that I’ve only grown better with age- like a fine wine you understand!- but surely you have something else to say to me, your oldest friend? Ah!” he admonishes, carefully setting his lute aside and placing one elegant finger on Geralt’s lips, “don’t start with that whole ‘we aren’t friends’ nonsense again. We both know that isn’t the case.”

Geralt can only blink at him. Jaskier- or whatever this apparition is- only laughs at him and then carefully fishes out the wolf head medallion from inside Geralt’s jerkin, holding it reverently in one hand.

“There,” he says, leaning close and staring into the Witcher’s eyes, “proof that I’m not some doppler or monster.”

“Then what are you?” Geralt asks, torn between getting up and storming away and easing closer. Blue eyes bore into him, fond and knowing and feeling as if they can stare into his very soul.

“Why, I’m Jaskier of course! I can’t well be anything- or anyone- but myself, can I?”

Before Geralt can reply, the-thing-that-might-be-Jaskier leans forward and captures his lips in a soft kiss, and Geralt is enveloped by the sweetly familiar scent of Jaskier.

“I’m just a Jaskier who’s figured out what pleases me,” the apparition murmurs against his lips, dipping in for one more kiss before drawing back.

Geralt closes his eyes.

“I’m the furthest thing from what should please you,” he says.

“What, because you broke my heart?” Jaskier asks lightly, and Geralt winces.

“I didn’t-”

“Oh no, you did,” Jaskier says. “At this very moment I’m sitting somewhere on this mountain, sobbing into a Geralt that past me is convinced is a figment of my imagination.”

Geralt flushes- or at least he would if Witcher’s were capable of it. As it is, he merely glances off to the side, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“The bard’s resilient,” he says. “He’s been rejected more times than I’ve had hot meals. He’ll survive.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, beloved,” Jaskier says, and Geralt starts at the endearment, his head automatically lifting to stare Jaskier in the eyes, “but we both know that you’re different. That a rejection from you is not one that he can recover from easily.”

“I don’t need him weighing me down,” Geralt growls, “and he’s better off without me, anyway. This way he can fuck off to Oxenfurt or some rich lordling’s court. While away the rest of his life in comfort. The Path is no place for a bard.”

Jaskier sighs, and plonks himself down next to Geralt, shoving at him until the Witcher shuffles over. He doesn’t even take advantage of the extra space, instead sprawling himself out and into Geralt’s personal space.

“Perhaps the Path isn’t the place for a bard,” Jaskier replies, “but it certainly is the place for _your_ bard. Or more precisely, wherever you decide to dedicate yourself is the place for your bard. Be that the Path or anywhere else your duty might take you.”

The words hit somewhere deep inside him, and Geralt takes a shuddering breath, but he can’t flee. Can’t move, because Jaskier is pinning him to the ground. And yes, it would be easy enough to stand and send the bard tumbling to the ground, but he doesn’t do so.

“He deserves better-” he starts instead.

Jaskier snorts at him. “Debateable,” he says. “But even if he did deserve better, it’s not what he deserves. It’s what he wants. And what I want, Geralt of Rivia, what I have wanted since that day in Posada decades ago, is you.”

He sits up straight and, wrapping his arms around Geralt for stability, draws him into a third and final kiss.

“Take your time, my love,” he murmurs, breath tickling at Geralt’s ear. “Just- not too much of it. You deserve to be happy.” He hesitates. “And er, not to rush you or anything, but don’t forget that my younger self is currently alone on a monster infested mountain. At night. Probably best not to leave me for _too_ long.”

#

_The moon shines bright on the mountain. Two souls awake._

_One takes a shuddering breath, rolls over, and tries to go back to sleep, cradled around his lute. Regrets and misery pour off him in a haze and he can’t help but grasp at the last vestiges of his dream. The last vestiges of Geralt._

_One takes a shuddering breath and sits up, weapon drawn. Regret pours off him like a haze and he stands up; there’s only one way off the mountain. If he hurries, he can find his bard by dawn._

**Author's Note:**

> Title and song that future!Jaskier sings from 'Winter' which is Dandelion song from the _Sword of Destiny_. 
> 
> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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